When Eve made no comment, he went on softly:

“You didn’t think Tony Brown would let you go without making a fight for it, did you?”

Now she spoke, gaspingly: “You—you’ve no right here! Get out! I don’t want—”

“You don’t want your Tony any more,” interrupted Brown. “I’m all washed up, aren’t I? You’ve cost me plenty, Evie, more than I could afford, and now you’ve found someone with mere money, and you don’t even want to say goodbye.”

He touched her shoulders. She flinched, but did not try to get away. His long, slender fingers caressed her skin softly, moving nearer and nearer to the slim white neck. He could see a little pulse beating beneath her chin.

He moved his forefinger and touched the pulse, feeling its fluttering.

Eve kept absolutely still, as if petrified.

“Scared to death, aren’t you?” the man said.

“I—no! I’m not frightened of you.” She could hardly get the words out.

“You ought to be,” said Brown. He pressed more firmly, his hands right round her neck. “Just think of what I could do to you, Evie. Just think of what Paul Raeburn would say if there were dark bruises on that lovely neck, if your face was swollen and purple and—”

“Get away from me!” she screamed, and sprang up, freeing herself. “Get away!”

“You don’t have to worry,” Brown repeated. “I didn’t come here to kill you. I’m a fighter, Eve, and I haven’t lost yet. I’ve come to talk to you. Sit down.”

She stood where she was, her hands clutching her throat.

He leaned over, pulled a wrap from a chair and draped it round her shoulders. Then he pushed her towards a divan which was close to the blue-papered wall. “I said sit down.”